


What He Deserves

by Pholo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Sherlock deserves to be happy holy heck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9411785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: John confronts Sherlock about his suicidal tendencies.Rated teen for dark themes.





	

"You wanted her to shoot you."

Sherlock doesn't look up from his phone, though his fingers go a little tighter around the plastic casing. "Thought you'd gone to bed."

"No you didn't," John says. And yes, Sherlock had heard John pause at the top of the stairs on his way to bed, heard the hesitant creak of floorboard on bare feet as he retreated downstairs to the sitting room. Sherlock flips a glance to John's face; he sees the sharp line of his mouth and knows he's clenching his teeth. Military stance.

Sherlock puts away his phone. He leans back in his chair and braces himself for an uncomfortable conversation.

"First you overdose on the plane," John says. "Then you goad a woman into shooting you. Then you—turn a gun on yourself. In Sherrinford."

Sherlock blinks. "I believe you used the phrase, 'risk your life to prove you're clever.'"

"No," John says. "This isn't about pride, Sherlock. Or the game. This is about—" John swallows. He leans forward to brace himself against the back of his armchair. "When I came back from Afghanistan—"

"Don't."

"Sherlock—"

"I don't want to die, John."

"Maybe not," John says. "But you don't want to live, either. You don't think you—deserve to live. Yeah?"

Everything stops. The traffic noise outside fades to a low-frequency hum.

John's eyes meet Sherlock's, and he doesn't look away. John stares, face open, eyes dull. Sherlock recognizes the expression from his own funeral: Grief. Sherlock feels his chest constrict. His vision narrows to John's downturned mouth.

Sherlock wishes Rosie would wake up and wail. He wishes John would give up and go to bed. The silence stretches on and on like some vast ocean. Focus. Sherlock finds the surface. He digs his fingers into the arm of his chair.

"Norbury was a mistake," Sherlock says, on a shaky exhale. "The drugs were—a miscalculation."

John shakes his head a little, like he's ashamed. "For gods' sake, Sherlock. You nearly let a psychopath suffocate you."

"I knew you'd save me."

"No," John says. "You couldn't have. Not after I'd—" John stops. "If I'd been a minute late, you'd be dead."

Sherlock fights the urge to close his eyes. He keeps his gaze rooted on John's face. He feels Smith's voice tickle the skin on his cheek: "Maintain eye contact."

John must see Sherock's shudder, because he moves forward from behind his chair. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock feels the wild pitter-patter of his heart. Not good. He needs to breathe. "'M fine," he says.

John doesn't believe him—furrowed brow, muscles clenched—but he stops before he reaches Sherlock's chair. Sherlock exhales, messily. Breaks eye contact to stare at his shoes. The room goes fuzzy around the edges—the first stages of a panic attack. Embarrassment. _Stupid._

"Sherlock," John coaxes, quietly. "Breathe."

Sherlock can't help himself; he lets out a huffy laugh. _Breathing. Breathing's boring._ "I'm not sure I remember how."

Tar seeps up through the cracks of Sherlock's mind palace; a black blanket smothers his senses. 221b flutters and fades.

John steps towards him. It's the last thing Sherlock properly registers.

Blood rushes up through Sherlock's ears. He's suspended, alone and frightened, thousands of feet above the Earth. He hears, as though from down a well and years away: "In, two three four—come on, Sherlock. Listen to me." Sherlock's heart batters against his ribcage like a captured bird. "I know you can do this. Out, two three four…"

John. Listen to John. Be brave.

"You're home. You're at Baker Street—at the flat. Just focus on my voice."

John's voice. A spike of relief eases the pressure on Sherlock's chest. A door has opened; a great whoosh of air enters his body. 

"That's it, love, with me. In, two three four—out two three four. In two three four…"

The pain in Sherlock's head—high and bright like a tea kettle's scream—recedes as oxygen floods his lungs. Sherlock's mind palace blinks a couple times, a power grid on the fritz. John's face swims into view. "Right here, Sherlock," John says, and he's so close his nose could brush Sherlock's. "There you are…"

"John," Sherlock croaks. He reaches out to make sure he's real. John grasps Sherlock's hand. Sherlock feels the warmth of John's skin; the thrum of his pulse. His knees hurt. Somehow they've ended up on the floor. John doesn't seem to care. He pulls Sherlock away from the foot of his chair—hugs Sherlock to his chest like he's something beautiful and precious. John buries his face in Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock ducks his head, still dizzy for lack of oxygen, so that they're temple to temple, crouched around each other on the floor. They slot together, and Sherlock can feel John's heartbeat against his chest as he says,

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. Christ. I am so, so sorry."

Sherlock rests his forehead on John's shoulder. "John. Don't do this."

"No, I—" John sucks in a breath. "You have to listen to me. I'm serious. What I did to you—friends don't hurt each other like that, understand? It's not normal. It's not okay."

"I killed your wife," Sherlock says, through a pinched throat.

"She made a _choice_ , Sherlock." John clasps his hands tighter around Sherlock's back. "And I should never have—beaten you, for that. Jesus. I can't believe—" his breath hitches. "Never again, Sherlock. I will never, ever hurt you like that again. I was wrong. There's no excuse. And to think—I made you believe you actually deserved—"

"John."

"Sherlock, please." John draws back, and his hands find Sherlock's arms. Sherlock, eyes open now, watches John falter, his movements slow, as he traces his hands up the length of Sherlock's arms—draws them up to cup Sherlock's face, his fingers barely a whisper on his cheeks.

"You deserve," John says, his voice hushed but fervent, "to live. You deserve everything this world has to offer. I don't know—how to prove that to you. But I'll try. For as long as you'll have me, I'll try."

Sherlock wants to catch John's hands and hold them, but he's afraid he'll cross some boundary line—trigger a reset. He'll wake up and John will never have cared—never have held him so tenderly.

And then suddenly there are kisses. Not on his lips, but the hollows of his neck, the space under his ear, along his forehead. There's a crumpled look on John's face.

Sherlock refuses to process John's kisses. He refuses to catalogue a dream. He squeezes his eyes shut. "Please—"

"You were ready to shoot your own brother for me," John says. "You've done—so much for me—"

"You don't want this." John's lips meet the corner of his mouth. "You can't possibly—"

"I do. I swear I do," John says. John's kisses are gentle but sure. He kisses Sherlock like it's the most important thing he's ever done. "You are loved, Sherlock. You are loved, you are loved, you are loved…"

Sherlock chokes. "I don't deserve—"

"You do. More than anyone. I owe you so much..."

There are tears now. Sherlock cries, and John kisses him. John runs his thumb along the back of Sherlock's neck; his lips meet Sherlock's fully for the first time. Sherlock feels shame and fear, and his lips are chapped and wobbly, but John holds him and kisses him like he's his whole universe. Sherlock finally allows himself to think. He snapshots every second of John's touch, every brush of skin against skin.

"I love you," John says, when they break apart. Sherlock swallows a sob. "Oh, Sherlock…Oh, love…"

It's 12 o'clock at night in London. A few cars and cabs trail down Baker Street, and the wind kicks up litter from the gutters. Sherlock and John sit huddled together on the floor. They hold one another, and count each others' breaths. 

Rosie sleeps soundly upstairs.

**Author's Note:**

> *Lies on bed and listens to Sufjan Steven's "Beloved My John" and Keaton Henson's "Sweetheart, What Have You Done to Us" on repeat* I am dead.  
> I needed more sap (to act as a balm for my broken heart) so—here we are. Hope you guys are doing okay; I know this last series was like a punch to the gut.


End file.
